Chapter 20
I shove my gear bag into the backseat of my car and slam the door harder than I mean to. The echo resounds through the parking garage, too loud in the empty space, and it grates on my already raw nerves. My knuckles ache from practice, but it’s nothing compared to the tightness I feel in my chest.
Rochelle’s face flashes in my mind, the way she looked at me last night, not as if I was some news to dissect, but like she actually saw me.
That softness, that damn tenderness, it’s been digging at me since she left my room. And then her questions, the way she knew about Coach Reynolds… It wasn’t an accident. She’s digging deep.
I drag a hand over my jaw, my nails scraping against the stubble.
Part of me wants to trust her, maybe more than I should.
The other part? The part that’s lived through cameras shoved in my face, through lies printed in bold font on articles.
That part screams she’s going to stab me the second I let my guard down.
Yet I can’t get her words out of my head, “You don’t have to be the villain they’ve made you out to be.” That’s easy for her to say when she’s the one with the pen, the one who gets to decide how much of me ends up on display.
The concrete smells faintly of oil and damp air, and every footstep feels like a warning. My paranoia spikes. It always does in places like this, where there are too many shadows, too much space for someone to be watching.
I hate that I expect it now, that it’s normal for me to feel hunted.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. It’s a message from Marcus Webb again. I don’t even have to look. Rochelle didn’t tell me what he wanted, but I can guess. Dirt on me. Anything that sells. That’s what people want from me, not the truth, not who I really am, just the damage they think I cause.
I toss the phone back into the passenger seat without answering and lean against the driver’s side door, staring at the low ceiling lights overhead. My pulse won’t slow. Every time I think I’ve managed to keep my past buried, something else claws its way back to the surface.
Maybe Rochelle was right. Maybe I’m not as tough as I pretend to be.
A bitter laugh slips out before I can stop it. Vulnerability doesn’t suit me. It’s dangerous, messy, and it always leaves cracks.
Cracks that people slip through when they want to break you apart.
And lately, it feels like everyone wants a piece of me.
The garage under the restaurant smells like exhaust smoke and fried oil, a mix that clings to the cold air. I balance a takeout bag in one hand, and my keys in the other, just wanting to get home and shut out the noise in my head.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps approaching. They’re not rushed or hesitant. Each step taken seems intentional.
I freeze halfway to my car, my instincts kicking in. My shoulders are tense, and I angle my body so I can see whoever’s coming without looking like I’m ready for a confrontation. The light overhead flickers, casting everything in stuttered shadows.
Then I hear the voice. It’s so calm, it makes me feel uneasy.
“Hello, brother. We need to talk.”
The word slams into me harder than any of my opponents on the ice. Brother.
I turn slowly, takeout forgotten, the paper bag dangling at my side. A man steps out of the shadows. He looks about mid-thirties, maybe older, dark hair, sharp eyes that pin me like he’s known me for years. There’s a smirk on his face like he knows something I don’t.
My voice is flat, edged with warning. “You’ve got the wrong guy.”
He shakes his head and pulls something from his jacket. Papers. He holds them out to me with steady hands. “Definitely not. My name’s Derek. Same mother, different fathers. You and me.”
The sight of the documents makes my stomach twist. Birth certificates and a photo that’s worn at the edges, creased like it’s been carried around forever. Two kids, one of them unmistakably me, younger, next to a woman whose face I’ve tried to erase from my memory.
“Bullshit.” The word rips out of me, harsher than I mean it, but I can’t let this sink in. I can’t. “I don’t have a brother. I grew up alone. Foster homes, shelters, you name it. Alone.”
Derek takes a step closer. I match it backward, grip on my keys tightening until the metal digs into my palm.
“I thought the same,” he says. His voice is steady, but his eyes, there’s something hard there, something dangerous. “Until I had it all tested. DNA doesn’t lie. You’re my brother, Kai. My blood.”
The air feels heavier, pressing against my ribs. For a second, I almost believe him, but then anger cuts through my shock. I don’t want this. I never asked for this. A brother? Now? After thirty-five years of scraping by on my own?
“You think waving papers in my face makes it real?” I snap. “Family doesn’t just show up out of nowhere. Real family doesn’t wait for decades to speak up.”
His smirk widens. “Maybe not. But blood is blood no matter what, and whether you like it or not, I’m here now.”
My chest feels like it’s caving in, every old wound reopening at once. From foster care to Coach Reynolds, every loss I’ve carried, and now this stranger is trying to claim he’s part of me.
I shake my head, teeth clenched so tight it hurts. “I don’t know who the hell you are. But you’re not my brother.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just slides the papers closer, eyes locked on mine.
“We’ll see.”
I should walk away. I should throw the takeout in the trash, get in my car, and drive. But my feet don’t move. My gut’s already churning, and something about the way he stands there, like he owns the whole damn garage tells me if I leave now, he’ll only come back louder.
I grit my teeth. “Why now? If you’ve got all this proof, and if you’re so sure we’re blood, why wait until tonight?”
He smirks, like I just walked into his trap.
“Because I’ve been patiently watching you and waiting for the right time.
” He taps the folder of papers against his palm.
“You think all those leaks over the years were coincidences? Random strangers snapping photos, tabloids stumbling across the right tip at the right time?”
The air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale. My grip on my keys tightens. “What are you saying?”
Derek tilts his head, brown eyes glinting in the low light. “I’ve been the one feeding them. Every piece. Every angle. They paid well, and I had debts to cover, mostly from gambling. Cards, dice, you name it. I got in too deep, and your name, well our name was worth a fortune.”
My stomach drops. Memories flash as I remember headlines about my fights, my so-called ‘nightlife escapades,’ the relentless press painting me as a selfish and arrogant bastard. Every time I tried to get up, someone shoved me back down with another story.
“You…” My voice cracks, rage boiling up. “You’ve been the one selling me out?”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even try to look guilty. “You survived. You’re still here. Stronger than ever, right? And don’t pretend you didn’t like the bad boy image. It sold tickets, got you fans. Made you untouchable.”
I want to punch him. My fists curl, but I stay rooted, jaw locked. “You orchestrated all of it.”
Derek shrugs, casual. “Not all. But enough of it. The bar fight? You think some drunk just happened to start something with a senator’s daughter? Please. I lined that up. All I had to do was nudge the right people and stir the right pot.”
The garage tilts for a second, and I have to steady myself against the car. Rage, disbelief, betrayal, they hit all at once, harder than any blow I’ve taken in a game.
“You,” I spit. “Exploited every part of my life. My mother, my career, even that fight. All for what? A few thousand bucks and a way to crawl out of your own mess?”
Derek steps closer, close enough I catch the faint stench of cigarettes clinging to his jacket. “Not a few thousand, Kai. Millions. And I’m not done. You’ve got two choices, brother––pay up or watch everything crumble. Including that journalist you can’t keep your hands off.”
My blood instantly goes cold. He doesn’t have to say Rochelle’s name for me to know who he means.
My voice comes out low and dangerous. “Stay the hell away from her.”
Derek only smiles, wolfish and sharp. “You have forty-eight hours, Kai. Two million. Decide if it’s all worth it.”
The air in the garage feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on me. My voice comes out low, almost a growl. “You don’t have anything. Nothing concrete. Just whispers.”
Derek smirks, like he’s been waiting for me to say that. “You really want to test me on that?”
He pulls a thin folder from his jacket and drops it onto the hood of my car. Papers slide out, their glossy edges catching the dim light. My stomach knots as I stare at them.
Photos slip out. There’s one of me at the hospital, hand on my best friend’s shoulder. Another of me outside Tommy’s place, laughing like I don’t have the weight of the world on me. And then, my chest seizes as I stare at a shot of Rochelle and I in my truck.
The sight makes my throat tighten.
Jesus.
“You think the world won’t eat this alive?” Derek’s voice is soft, almost kind. That’s what makes it worse. “They don’t care if it’s innocent. They care if it sells. And you? You sell better than anyone.”
My pulse hammers so loud I can barely think. I want to tear the photos apart, crush his smug face into the concrete. But I don’t move. If I do, it all collapses.
“You’ve been following me,” I manage, my voice raw.
“Not just you.” He slides the photos back into the folder with a calmness that chills me. “Everyone you care about. Every move you make, every shadow. You’re not untouchable, brother.”
That word again. Brother. It cuts deeper every time he says it.
I force the question out, even though I already know the answer. “What do you want?”
His eyes gleam with triumph. “Like I said before, two million dollars. Wire it in forty-eight hours. Or everything goes public. The photos, the records, the truth, I’ll twist it the way they like it. The press will eat out of my hand.”
My jaw clenches until it aches. Anger burns through me, but panic digs in underneath. Rochelle. Tommy. My team. They’d all burn with me if this gets out.
Derek straightens his jacket, businesslike. “Forty-eight hours. Don’t make me chase you, Kai. I hate wasting time.”
He turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing off the concrete walls.
I can’t get my feet to move. My whole body trembles, heat and ice colliding in my veins. The folder is still on the hood of my car, a visual proof of everything I stand to lose.
And in my head, only one word keeps echoing.
Brother.